Fairfax
by Pen.Hastings
Summary: Edward Fairfax Rochester shares his thoughts at last. A glimpse of his life prior to meeting Jane is recorded in the original story, though only ephemerally. This begins at his wedding to Bertha Mason, and followed Mr. Rochester's life, sins, woes and joys through the end. New Chapter posted!
1. Chapter 1

Fairfax – Chapter 1

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.

The sweltering heat of a West Indian summer was not conducive to leaving the vicinity of the large fans and cool drinks of the hotel salon just now; nor was the mode of the day indulgent to the doffing of one's shirtwaist, cravat or waistcoat. The one alluring thing about this damnable climate was my lovely one. Those words, written so plainly now, after years of suffering and hopeless abandon seem alien to me. How I could attribute such a description to… but I have not even written a page and am already digressing and spoiling this history with my current musings. I must seek the idiot pup I was in youth and write his thoughts, not my own, twisted and mutilated as they became with age.

Bertha Antoinette Mason, my betrothed, stood amongst other young whelps who vied for her attentions, but her eyes bent only on my person with their seething, animalistic _want_ which tore at me. For that gaze would I yearn, would I beg, grovel. No one looked at me that way. Nor did she, had I but known, for it was not the man but the money she lusted after. Even as a boy, the words, "what a handsome fellow" never came upon my hearing. Tall and broad was I, strong in body and morose in manner with manic flights into talkative musings that defied the most cunning of communicators, my square visage held nothing of common beauty, and all of common beastliness.

Bertha flattered me, lying even as she ushered me through hell's gates which masqueraded as a church altar. Father knew. Roland knew. I was the one dupe in this process. Well, perhaps not. Dick knew little of this. Ten years my junior he was a mere boy when I wed his sister. He knew only hero's worship and dog-like loyalty for me. Yet unjaded by the world to which he was bound, he saw nothing untoward in the deportment of his family. His mother he knew had a temper, but his knowledge was unsullied by further information. His sister was all graces in company, and he never knew her but that she doted on him. I flattered myself, even, that my own attachment to the lad contributed to the connection between his sister and myself—love me, love my brother seemed to be her motto, and as such, I thought it endeared me to her brilliant self.

Bertha… her family and even I, in the beginning, caller her Antoinette, for that was a graceful name unlike the former which called images of obese, languishing dowagers to mind. So Antoinette she was then in my fevered mind, flirting her fan and making eyes of secrets in my direction. Her black eyes and sun-darkened skin hailed my soul into my throat and I became aware of the baseness of my own body in a way that nothing in my preceding nineteen years had done.

Toward me she gazed, unaware of the fops surrounding her, toward me she glided in her serpentine way, her skirts swishing seductively along the marble floor. "Shall we take a turn, Fairfax?" she asked, the spice of Kingston thick in her studied English. As I'd said before, there was no possibility of taking a walk that day… but for her I would e'en cross the Sahara or the sun.

It was her father's doting, "Not just now, my pet," that stayed us then. I'd had hopes of liaisons buried deep in the exotic flora in the evening beyond our salon, tasting—as I thought—the spice of her voice on her tongue. Alas, it was not to be that night. Approaching us smoothly, her father commanded well the situation, and handed me an expensive cigar. "It is time for supper, darling," said Mr. Mason, "And Rochester's constitution is not yet up to this damned hell of a night." Mr. Mason always called me Rochester, and nothing more. He slapped me on the back as I inhaled Havana, then gestured toward the supper table, laden with fruits and meats carefully prepared for our last supper before wedded bliss.

Thinking back, once more, I see how apropos a Last Supper it was. I had yet to face my blood sweat of Gethsemane, my scourge, and my walk toward Golgotha. Still I curse myself for not knowing that she with whom I shared my meal would transform into the Judas of my downfall.

OoOoOoOoO

The day of the wedding was equally as sweltering as the night previous, but I cared little for it. Soon I would behold my lovely one, she and I unencumbered by these constrictive stitches of fabric, exploring a new and different heat. The ceremony and toasts, wedding luncheon and dancing were all prelude and formality, the true wedding was yet to come. I smiled and jested, and Antoinette laughed merrily, now touching my arm gently, now whispering some promise in my burning ear, now rushing off in gay color to kiss her father or dance with her young brother Dick as my own heart pounded within. I barely knew her, but my heart was lost in the stupid, youthful way of the primal idiocy of inexperience. What new secrets would I know, with what heretofore forbidden pleasures would I become acquainted in a few short hours? The very thought intoxicated me like no wine, filled me like no meat, and had I but realized, poisoned me and ripped from me the innocent passion which was robbed from me.

When festivities were ended, I found myself in our honeymoon chamber, shy and eager, and she, almost… bored. The heat from her eyes that I had witnessed before cooled in an instant, and instead of the hesitating, excited and blushing virginal girl, she became businesslike in the sealing of our marriage. Marriage! That word as a descriptive between two such people is blasphemy and utter mockery. No harlot was ever so cruel, no woman of ill repute ever used a man so mercilessly. Certainly, I found at some point in the night the peak of ecstasy—how could one not, in such experienced hands? But that experience, which even I in my ignorance knew she had in spades, undid my innocent passion, unraveled my poorly-weaved love in an instant. I was not this woman's first lover, nor would I be her last, though God had joined us.

She had not even the sense of decency to feign ignorance of carnal knowledge, or use phrases such as, "I've heard it said…" or "some of the other women have told me…" Her words were blunt, honest, and painful to the ears. "Fairfax, now really," she laughed, "When I had young Roger and his brother, they were younger than you, and they were not nearly as… clumsy." Such commentary I lived with all night, by now so drunk with need and hope and fear that I did not allow myself to believe her words.

I must abridge, for this recollection sickens me. It is enough to say that, by the morrow, I had the knowledge I'd lacked, and far more than I'd desired or bargained for. Her turning was that sudden, her unchastity so quickly and shamelessly revealed that my heart was torn to pieces.

OoOoOoOoO

I woke in mind before I did so in body, becoming aware of my surroundings and circumstance. I was wed. I had tasted of the connubial bed. I had found in it poison. Her conduct and crass words, confessions of past lovers in her proud way, her relentless mocking of my inexperience; all flooded a mind drowning. Another thought passed me then; an ephemeral, shadowy thing which brought to mind an image of a land far off where rain drenched moors and downy heather grew wild; of my own distant England. A wailing infant came to my imaginings, newly hatched and corded still to its mother. A simple, honest name was spoken over the child, loving parents who were halfway in their own graves smiling in pain at their progeny. Why such a vision should come to me then, when my own mind was racked with incredulity I could not then tell. Was it a reminder that, were my own _bride_ to conceive, I could not readily assess whether the child she bore were truly mine? Somehow that vision had nothing and everything to do with my present circumstance, and it seemed to me then that the Almighty spoke the words, "Why did you not wait?"

Shaking these words and pictures from my head, reluctantly my eyelids pulled themselves open to the brightness of our chamber and my heart and body ached. Carefully I glanced to the side, expecting Antoinette's form in deep slumber beside me, but only cushions and mussed coverlets met my eyes. Where had she gone? I jerked to a sitting position then, wildly searching, my eyes soon landing on her figure by a window, sitting calm and placid in her dressing gown with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes trained on the sea view not far off. I cleared my throat, her head turned mechanically toward me, here eyes seeing without recognition, then turning toward the sea once more.

"Antoinette," I ventured, but she did not glance at me again. "Bertha," I said, more loudly, her form remained stagnant. Frustration welled within me as I rose from the bed and ambled toward her, my legs and back unsteady, my muscles spent. "Let us talk, at least," I said, reigning in my ire with the insufficient patience of my young years. Bertha said not a word. From that moment such would be her name to me, even with her still-lovely outer form, her inner self had become repugnant and unshapely. Still she ignored me. Hastily I donned my own garments and left our chamber, in search of I knew not what, perhaps merely vent to my rage in order that I would not spend it upon her.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The hours I walked in thought, wearing nothing more than a shirt and trousers, wrinkled by their night on a marbled floor. I made my way to the sea, hoping that the salt spray and breeze would bring some of my own cherished home back to me, giving me peace and perspective so that I might find some way of unraveling the tangle of my life. Bertha had been with other men; scores of others. That was one thing. She had teased and coaxed me into the marriage bed, confessing her indiscretions on the point of coitus. I gave all in a moment before I discovered that this woman I now knew in a Biblical sense had known others.

And yet…

Yet those others she had not married. Certainly, they had not the prestige of the Rochester Arms nor the wealth in our plate closet, but still—she had chosen me with whom to spend life. Who was to say that her youthful sin was not now over, as we were wed? She had sat very still, staring out to sea this morning when I accosted her. Perhaps she had been regretting her former life, paying some penance for her impurities. After all, I, too was and am to this day a wretched sinner; who was I to say that her sins had been greater than my own?

Warm water splashed against my feet and legs as I ambled along the surf in this frame of mind. It was well-past midday, the sun was now sinking in the west, and I had taken no food or drink, nor spoken a word to anyone. Was it true, perhaps, that Bertha was repentant? Did her choice to wed me mean the end of her wanderings? Was I so pure of heart that I could rightfully refuse her forgiveness for her choices? It could not be so. Though my heart had been broken that I was not her first, in its youthful resilience it persisted in believing in a blissful end to my trials, to an all-powerful love which conquers all.

I turned deliberately back toward our hotel, planning to offer her full and free the forgiveness I then felt, and to see her with new and clean eyes. She was my wife, I was her husband. The past did not matter. We were made new, one flesh, in the presence of God and a congregation of hundreds. How much must she be grieving my angered abandonment when I stormed from our chamber this morning? Was she even now weeping on the floor, praying that my heart would relent? How much I would show her the love I still harbored within! Entering the hotel and dashing up the steps two and three at one time I planned what I would say. I would fall upon my knees before her forgiving her and begging her forgiveness for my hardness of heart. I would kiss her then, nourish her with food and wine, an take her to my bosom, passionately entrusting her with my body and soul.

I flung the door to our chamber open, heart beating wildly in growing anticipation. Then ceasing to beat. Her eyes were all fire. My hands turned cold. Her face the picture of the most sinful of passions. My legs gave way. Her screams were ecstatic… and not for me. My knees hit marbled flooring. Her legs, entwined tightly with one of those very simpering fops from days before, his animal grunts unaware that any but him and my lady inhabited the room. But she… she watched me. As my heart bled out, as my final hopes were slain, she stared into my eyes, daring me to stop her, to stop them. Words from the night before came to my ears. "Fairfax, I will teach you how women want to be loved." This lesson, so sudden, was what she had meant. Her lovers were not all in her past.

Enraged, I staggered to my feet. In one bound I grasped the man's shoulder, yanking him from her embrace against the far wall of the chamber. "What the devil?!" he shouted, then recognizing my face, he cowered like a woman as I thrashed him across the case, probably breaking his jaw. Bertha, naked and stupid in her discovery, did not even have the decency to cover herself. Laughter issued from her as her lover gathered his clothing and staggered from the room. Calmly now, I walked toward the door, shut it, and turned back toward my wife. I pulled the golden band from my finger and flung it at her. Bertha laughed maniacally, and the blood, once coursing through my veins, drained from my face. I felt faint. She approached me, laughing still, a sick, gurgling sound issuing from her throat. She walked toward the brandy table, still uncovered and shameless and took the bottle from the tray. Removing the glass cork, she drank directly from it, gulping amber liquid until it ran down her face, neck and breasts.

"Are you not thirsty, Fairfax?" She asked. "Come and taste…" She re-corked the bottle and set it on the table, half on the edge so that when her hand released it, the decanter came crashing to the floor. She screamed in laughter, jumping from the shards of crystal, then walking back over them, cutting her feet on them, and crossing the floor with bleeding footprints toward me. "Taste!" she commanded, and I reeled from her. She was mad. This was no mere base behavior—this was insanity. Grasping my arms, she tried in vain to pull me to her, grasping my hair in brandy-soaked fingers, pulling my head toward her heated skin. "Take what you want," she whispered, writhed against me, tugged at my clothing. I shoved her away, retching on the floor. This was no faithful bride innocently alluring her husband in love—this was wonton, disgusting sickness. I turned from her, and she sank to the floor, now wailing as she pulled broken pieces of glass from her feet. Even then, pity took me. I grasped from the bed a loose sheet and placed it over her shoulders. She shrugged it off, crying and wailing and screeching. What was this woman, this thing?

I left the chamber and sought out the maître d', commanding him to fetch a doctor quickly, as well as a magistrate. I would spend no more nights with this insane woman. Our marriage was a farce, ended, ruined. Soon all were sent for and Bertha was taken to hospital, her wounds bandaged. Soon she lay sleeping in a sick bed, all the while the magistrate explained and re-explained that, as she was mad, divorce or annulment would not be granted me.

Days later, weeks later, months gone, a year and more spent, and this reality of my new life took hold. She would be calm one moment, almost to my disbelief as she conversed reasonably with others and with me—I would see that side of her I'd known in our brief days of courtship, and suddenly alone again with her she would rail at me, hit and bite, rip my clothing and hers in her ceaseless lust, speak daring words to other men in my presence, begging them to take her. She drank spirits incessantly, and not those alone—she smoked opiates, and when in their haze she would take bottles of ink and swallow them entirely, cut herself with glass and with razors, groan and laugh and shriek at servants. There was no control—I could not sense when the madness would take her.

I was almost in my own kind of madness, the evening I took a brace of pistols from my dressing closet, planning to use both in my own demise. Even the hell that awaited the suicide could not be as bad as this. That night was the night of my epiphany. Whether it was God or some other vision, dreams of my lost England came again to mind. A messenger had come that day with news that my father and brother had both perished of the fever. Thornfield was now mine. And I now had a plan.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Reading over these recollections brings me no pleasure; and I might say as little pain is heralded now at the distance of I will not say how many years. If pain there be, it exists only in my actions following and the consequent worse harm I suffered and caused by them. As well I do not wish to dwell upon so distasteful details as those I intimated until now. It is sufficient to record that, though I felt no peace or contentment for five minutes together with Bertha, I considered myself bound to her one the magistrate gave to me the position of the law. I took my bride, therefore, to myself and found a villa that was to let on there in Jamaica. I shouldered my duty but found it no friend; only a heavy yolk with which I could barely plod forward, having no equal burden-bearer beside me to ease the work and make light of the hours.

In public, when we ventured thus into society, she was calm enough, even entertaining and charming. When her father or brother visited she was gay and a perfect hostess. I contrived to become a socialite, much as I abhorred this busy, flighty existence, if only to keep her in good spirits. She was so entirely conniving and manipulative that even I, on those occasions, felt some change about her. To my self-disgust, I was e'en charmed at those times and danced with her at balls, simpering though not her slave as she showed off her numerous accomplishments in public.

On evenings such as this I could all but forget her rages at home when in hours that ought to have been quiet were instead rent with her yells, both at me and servants who too soon gave their notices. And, disgusting be the thought, on such nights I ventured to see her once more as the bride of my youth, and something stirring within, I found myself in the night approaching her chamber—for we slept separately—to seek connubial bliss for an hour or two. I approached her door cautiously, my ear pressed to the wood to divine her actions, for I would not burst in upon another scene like that of our honeymoon. If all was quiet, I would approach her carefully. At times she would rage, at others she would welcome. How many times did I again and again bring the cup of poison to my parched lips? For no matter how long the spells of sweet lasted, and worry within reminded me that it would not last, and the reality would rush in upon me soon following with her curses and screaming, mocking my very manhood and throwing me from the room.

I would not be violent with her, though with a single blow I might have halted her tirade. Though she angered me, though I began to hate her, I could not but pity the feebleness of her condition. Aside from her womanly form that was not equal to mine in strength, her mind was diseased in such a way that by turns I felt I must hate yet succor it as a mother with a deformed child must yet bring it to her breast for nourishment.

In such frenzy and teetering upon a walk where calm reigned on one side and rage on the other, four years passed. As afore mentioned, my bother then father perished, and I was now my own master, and quite rich. Four years of this! How it sped I cannot tell. In my eagerness to keep Bertha congenial I kept us in company as much as possible, and the whirlwind of parties and escapades with the fashionable class of Spanishtown made the hours short. The lonely nights of her ravings and my inability to sleep were the lengthy part of those first years.

A thought entered my heart then, and I resolved upon cleansing myself of this mire, though the means I lighted upon were not of heavenly origin. It is often said that demons take on the appearance of the angel of light, and certainly my demon did so. When it did not tempt me with self-destruction, it brought before me images of a free life on my native soil; or at least the Continent if not my very own England. Even America held its charms for me, were I to consider a visit. The Antipodes would be a welcome change were I free of this shackle. Three more years passed as I wrestled with duty and the freedom I craved. By the age of twenty-six I had tired of the revolving world of social doings and private angst—and truth be told, Bertha was no longer up to the strain and performance of being in society. Her madness deepened, and a part of the house was reserved for her to live in with nurses and men guarding her by day and night. The town and the country of Jamaica now knew of her excesses and madness. It seemed that the world knew we as well, and I was a poor dupe, the honest target of mockery.

But my demon and angel reminded me one night that Jamaica was not the world, nor even any but a tiny portion of it. In my own kind of madness I carefully loaded my pistols and placed both in my mouth, though the thought of a worse hell than this somehow seeped into the cracks of my thoughts, and in hopelessness I lowered the weapons once more and wept bitterly. "God," said I, for though I felt forsaken I believed in Him yet. "If I cannot die and I cannot live… what then can I do?"

The answer came on that night, as softly as you please. Like Elijah in his cave, the voice of God was not in earthquake or destruction, it was calm and cooling and simple as it came to my ear, prompting me to recall Thornfield. That was all the Almighty said, and it should have been enough, if I had not already opened my soul to the demon in disguise as well. At first, it agreed with the heavenly voice, "Yes, Thornfield is the very place to bring her and shut her in. And then… what is to stop you from taking to your bosom a true bride?"

Gilead's Balm laced such words for me. God's directive to return to my native home would have been enough, but the idea of marrying again came to my mind so quickly upon the divine mandate that my own fevered heart took it up. "Yes," I said aloud, though no one else was in the room. "I am not married. This is no union I have. I am not culpable for choosing to abolish it." Though I justified to myself the actions I was about to take, the relentless voice reminded me, _the two shall become one flesh and what God has joined let no man put asunder. _I spoke again, arguing with God's own law. "But You did not join us, Lord," I reasoned. "How _could_ You?" I believed, or thought I believed which is very different, that He would bless my means and lead me to a blissful shore if only I could take up the fortitude and make the first step.

I would, I resolved, and from that day listened no longer to Conscience or Providence which checked my action. I listened only to the stirrings of my own heart, forgetting even the holy writ which affirmed how deceitful that organ is.

In less than a fortnight I gave up this house and booked passage home to England. I planned it carefully, and in two months' time had her installed in Thornfield. Had I stopped here, or merely sought a guardian for her and live the remainder of my years shut up there or perhaps Ferndean Manor, I might not have sinned further; and might not have met… well. _Would have_ is a phrase that sullies what is.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: For this chapter I indulged in a bit of light research of various asylums of the day, coming upon some interesting facts. The place where Rochester ends up finding assistance was not fully explained in Jane Eyre, and I was excited to find out what I could to weave it into the story. Hope you enjoy as I introduce a crucial character. Thank you for your comments and messages, I truly appreciate them. I cannot update this as quickly as I would like, but I want each chapter to be as quality as I can make it, and speed must not come at the expense of style. Thanks again!**

Chapter 4

It must be once more explained and reiterated that it was not because Bertha was mad that I hated her so completely. In point of fact my pity for the broken woman often over-shadowed my loathing of the maniacal beast. In her ravings I was disgusted, but only so much as a man might be by a foaming, rabid dog, one he knew must be shot and by his own hand. In her lucid moments—as infrequent as they became—she knew perfectly well how she behaved. Her malice, curses and wanton lust were all practiced with such skill and excess that I knew somewhere within her a strong mind battled with a feeble one to hold sway. It was the wicked sane woman I so abhorred, not the violent raving lunatic.

Indeed, from first setting foot upon my beloved English shore, it was foremost in my thoughts to find her a restful solace, a human and kind situation where she might live in relative happiness. Horror stories of Bedlam haunted me, and I would not be so unkind as to abandon her to a place like that, no matter what her conduct had been to me. No human—no insane beast who had once been human—deserved the punishment forced upon them by perverted attendants and foul surgeons. A mere few years before my star-crossed nuptial I'd heard of new asylums where patients were treated kindly. Through activity and exercise, good meals, walking, games, gardening and the like, they might live out an existence in a harmless, even happy way. I had it in my mind to find such a place for Bertha, not only to care for her, but perhaps to atone for my own hastiness in marrying her—and in anticipation of the further sins I knowingly would commit once I was rid of my charge.

I settled on the new Hanwell House, a lunatic asylum wherein the inmates might pass life in a busy, cheerful manner. Thence I conducted my bride. The asylum's façade was an innocuous manner house with carefully trimmed lawns, trees and paved walkways. Ivy grew up the red-stoned face and windows with whitewashed shutters conveyed welcome. It looked more like a nobleman's seat than a place that housed the insane.

Because of my rank and wealth, I met with Dr. Hanwell himself; a portly, past middle-age physician with a compassionate heart. During our interview, Bertha and I were given a tour of the grounds and introduced to other residents of the asylum. Though she was skeptical, she showed no outward dislike of the situation; though that may be more as a result of my keeping the true nature of the place from her. She simply thought of it as a luxury house, much like those one finds in Bath during the beginning of the season. She seemed pleased that she had been invited for a week to remain there, dine sumptuously and enjoy the pleasures of society among the residents.

Those who lived there were well-groomed and dressed, taken care of by nurses in livery rather than traditional uniforms, for the image was not that of a lunatic asylum, but of a retreat with personal servants. It was only when one required medical attention that he was separated from the others and put under care of the doctors directly. Upon the week's closure, I returned to Hanwell House to sign papers for Bertha to remain there indefinitely. When I arrived, instead of being ushered in to see her, I was detoured for a private consultation. I was spoken to rather hesitantly by the good doctor on why my wife could not, under any circumstance, be admitted as a permanent inmate.

"Why?" came my cold and harsh inquiry.

"Mr. Rochester," said Dr. Hanwell in a simpering yet patronizing way, "You must understand my position here."

"Your position is to disappoint well-paying patrons?" I asked simply.

"Indeed it is not," replied Hanwell. "Mrs. Rochester—"

"Do not call her that," I commanded sternly.

Abasing himself thoroughly, Hanwell cleared his throat and wiped a bright red face with his handkerchief. "I do beg your pardon, sir," he said "Bertha." I nodded curtly. "Bertha has an interesting case."

"Go on."

"Bertha exhibited no uncommon behavior when she first came," said Dr. Hanwell. "She was genial enough; almost to the point where I thought you might be playing a farce with me regarding her mental state. She seemed to think it a pleasure house entirely."

"Is not that your purpose in creating such an atmosphere?" I asked.

"Indeed it is," said Dr. Hanwell, "For the families of our inmates, at least. Our patients know that they are here for treatment, and as such abide by the rules prescribed here for their conduct."

My heart began to sink. At the word "conduct" I became immediately aware that _Bertha's conduct_ had not been above reproach. I only wondered how far she had gone.

"To speak plainly, sir…" said Dr. Hanwell, though his voice trailed off and he began to fumble through the pockets of his jacket. "Your wife was most assuredly surprised to learn that the other residents of the House… eh… were not residents as such…" He fished out a snuff box and opened it, then perceiving that it was empty shut it in disappointment and returned it to his pocket.

I unhurriedly removed my own snuffbox and placed it upon the wooden desk which separated myself and the doctor. With my finger and thumb still resting on it, I sighed and finished for him. "When she found out this was, in effect, a _mad house_, she turned on you." Dr. Hanwell flinched at my harsh descriptive, but shrugged in acknowledgement. I gingerly slid the snuff box toward him then linked my fingers, resting them on the desk.

Dr. Hanwell reached for the box, opened it, and pinched out a liberal amount of the expensive snuff. Once he had indulged, he slid the box back toward me then and said, "I have never, in my professional practice of twenty-seven years, beheld such behavior, Mr. Rochester." Almost bored, I described what her conduct must have been, even to the details of shattering glass, self-mutilation and seducing one or more of the inmates. The doctor shrugged again, shrewdly tilting his head and saying, "More or less, sir."

"And?"

"And, sir?"

"And so you cannot keep her here?"

"No, no, sir," said the man, shifting his substantial person in his seat and wiping his face once more. "It is out of the question. Our inmates are mentally incapable of living in the world it is true, but they are mostly harmless; to others, at least. A woman like Bertha belongs in Bedlam under restraint," he said, "And perhaps, though I cannot condone all the practices of such a place, the word lobotomy surfaces in my mind."

Disgusted with this man ever more than I had been with Bertha's conduct, I stood, pocketed the snuff box, and with a curt "I wish you good day" intended on leaving his study.

"Now, sir, there are, of course, other alternatives…"

"Where is she?" I asked.

"There are other places…" said Dr. Hanwell, "Places much more human than Bedlam… I know the very place!"

"Where the _Deuce_ is Bertha?" I asked once more, still calm, but cold and commanding.

"In… seclusion," said Hanwell and he rose. "I will take you to her."

I followed him through the door from his study into a corridor, then through a panel in the wall which, had I not been looking for it, I would not have noticed. "It is this way to the treatment rooms, sir," said Hanwell. We passed into a room that was brightly lit by windows and skylights, where nurses (in traditional uniform) cared for various and sundry patients, some in wheeled chairs, some lying in beds propped up with pillows, others playing games. Many had bandages, and all were clad in similar dressing gowns, but the room was still as cheerful as the others in this place. There was nothing to frighten an inmate here.

At the far wall there was another door, which we passed through into an additional corridor. This hallway was lined with doors and guarded by policemen. He ushered me to one on the left, and peeking through a small window he said, "It is safe." I looked in before her unlocked the door and beheld her, crouched in a corner, wearing a straight waistcoat her jetty mass of hair covering her face. I'd seen her in that attitude before; after one of her ravings. But somehow, in this place, with walls lined with padding and white, white light all around, she looked like a vulnerable child, and my hearth throbbed within me. It seemed to me in that moment that she was not meant to be in such a place after all. The society of harmless madmen was not to be hers, nor could I stomach the idea of a place such as Bedlam.

"You said you knew of another place?" I asked, my throat constricted with pain on behalf of this woman I hated.

"In the north of England, sir," said Dr. Hanwell, "The Grimsby Retreat, sir."

"I've heard something of it," I said.

Indeed, sir, it is a most agreeable situation. Good care, much like we offer, but with a more direct approach to the inmates. It houses the mild and the criminal.

"I find I do not wish to house her anywhere that this," I pointed toward Bertha, now groaning softly, "Is the norm. Restraints are needed at times, but this… this is inhumane."

Dr. Hanwell shrugged. "We are not as equipped for such rages as this woman has displayed, sir. We could do no better."

"I wish to care for her within the confines of my own house. Can that be done with assistance from someone who is more equipped? More competent?"

The doctor's face reddened, but he smiled gently. "Indeed, sir. The Grimsby Retreat has often sent out its own handlers to assist in private homes. And good hands they are, sir, no mistake."

"Good," said I, turning the handle to enter the room where Bertha still sat. "I will go there directly, once I see to her comfort. Who is proprietor?"

"Mr. Pollex Poole, sir," said Hanwell as we approached Bertha carefully. "And he shares his duties with his mother, I believe… Grace. Grace Poole."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The coach rattled loudly, jarring me awake. Though discomfort usually accompanied any type of travel with Bertha, I'd not experienced so sound a slumber in seven years. "There, now, Master," said Mrs. Poole as she glanced up from her charge. "You rest a mite more. T'coachman gave twenty mile and more until the hall is reached." Bertha, silent though awake, sat beside her grim yet kind monitress and looked from me to her. "We'll have no sound from her this night, that I'll warrant," continued the good woman. Re-positioning myself so that I rested against the coach wall I closed my eyes once more, soothed by the rocking motion and newfound knowledge that the woman sitting just across from me had my wife well in-hand.

The Grimsby Retreat lay fifty miles north from Hanwell House—an opposite direction from Thornfield, a further 30 miles southeast. The long stretch of road, confined to the coach with Bertha was interminable. A private conveyance it was, but more than once the coachman must have prayed and made boundless oaths during the sojourn toward Grimsby. He was glad to be rid of his passengers, one a stern, sullen, and broken man, the other a raving woman who used every curse known under the sun. Between cursing every part of my anatomy, spitting directly in my face and screeching betimes, Bertha made the journey to the retreat a living nightmare. She yelled and railed at me by turns, and only by holding her wrists was I able to stave off being scratched to a pulp. When not attacking my person she continually sought to exit the coach and run off. The first time she did this we were not three miles from Hanwell. I rushed from my seat and ran after her; quite an exertion of strength, for she, though feeble of mind, possessed strength enough of limb that I was obliged to sprint at my full speed to overtake her.

Once inside the coach again—much to her protests—I ordered the coachman to lock us within to avoid another scene. Many of the mountain paths between here and Grimsby were dangerous with precarious footing. Should she make her escape on one of those roads she might fall to her death down cliffs of rock and bramble. Even in my own personal ravings I would not allow myself to imagine being rid of her in such a way. That the initial thought came into my head sickened me and convinced me of my own wickedness like nothing else did. This creature was a fiend; but one of God's own yet, and I would not presume to be the one to take life from her, whether indirectly or with a purpose. Whatever morality was lacking in my character in those days would not, at least, allow me to break the command, _though shalt not commit murder. _As to the other nine, I was to break them all in the coming years, but that lay in my future.

The present was bleak, and I had little faith in the proprietors of Grimsby Retreat, regardless of Dr. Hanwell's assurances that it would be the very place to find someone to care for my wife's special circumstances. I dreaded ending the fifty-mile trek to the Retreat only to be turned away with my charge to travel a further ninety miles home with her again and no closer to a solution.

Somehow we arrived at the Retreat in due time, the night cold and dark as only November can boast, particularly in Northumberland. The place was fenced in iron and gated securely. At the gatehouse we were inquired of, and seeing the woman and myself retired within were passed through to a large, stone house yonder, nearly all windows dark save a few. This Grimsby Retreat more fit my mind's image of a lunatic asylum, at night at any rate, with dark stone and serviceable nurses and assistants in crisp uniforms. It was clear that no soft exterior was feigned to hide what such an establishment was for. Though a humane asylum with amenities rivaling those of a place like Bedlam, the family members of an inmate need not wonder at any service provided within.

The proprietors were as the building: plain with no pretentions, serviceable and lacking outward polish, but entirely capable. Reading my card and my letter of recommendation from Dr. Folsworth Henwell, Mr. Poole nodded his head and passed the papers toward the plain, order woman beside him; his mother, I presumed. "This seems to be in order, Mr. Rochester," said Mr. Poole. "How long has her condition been progressing?"

"These four years at least," I replied, "Though I know now how long the seeds have fermented in the soil within. The first outbreak I witnessed was seven years ago."

"Indeed," said Mr. Poole, glancing at Bertha, who sat dumb. Since we arrived she was still and quiet, searching each person she beheld and assessing the possibility of escape or escapade—whichever she might seize upon. In the presence of Mrs. Poole and her son, Bertha seemed cowed for once, even more so than by myself. Somehow these two emanated power and control, and she knew it. I could not be more pleased. "And tell me, does it manifest in other ways beside a tendency to destruction to herself and others?"

Surprised at the man's intuition regarding Bertha's familiar, I confessed some of her other vices without qualm. Mrs. Poole spoke then. "Her lucid moments are less frequent of late?"

"Yes," I replied. The woman nodded, glancing at her son and he grimaced in response, somehow communing without words. "Is she… that is, I do not wish to leave her. Have you anyone who might accompany back to Thornfield to watch and care for her?"

"Mother will go," said Mr. Poole, and the older woman nodded her head in ascent. Strange arrangement, this, I thought. "She has presided over this house and its residents for many years faithfully, Mr. Rochester. Changing from fifty inmates to just one charge will be retirement for her. She has served well."

I glanced toward Mrs. Pool, and she nodded once, pulling her mouth into a grim smile; evidently she was unused to the expression, but I could tell somehow that it was kindly meant. "I am much obliged to you, good woman," I said, the tightness in my chest easing somewhat. "She… Bertha—she is cunning. She possesses great strength of will and body. Are you certain that she will not be too much for you?"

"Nay," said Mrs. Poole. As though our interview were a staged thing, Bertha chose that moment to bolt from her chair and charge toward the door. Calmly, though more swiftly than even I could reach her, Mrs. Poole was at Bertha's side, speaking softly to her. "Now, Missus," said the woman. "If ye cannot behave I shall have to make you." Bertha spat out a foul rejoinder and swung a heavy fist in the older woman's direction. Deftly, Mrs. Poole grasped my wife's wrist and pulled it downward, twisting it carefully yet firmly until Bertha flinched. The woman did not hurt her, but I could see that with a slight bit more of pressure she could break Bertha's arm. "We'll not have such words, Bertha," said Mrs. Poole, "'Tis not likely, nor for a lady to say such." Her eyes stared into Bertha's, unblinking and cold, though still very calm, her voice very kind. There was no question of authority, Mrs. Poole was in perfect control. "Let us sit once more, madam, and I'll get ye some tea to drink. Would ye?" Bertha said nothing, but let her chin fall just enough to convey a nod, and Mrs. Pool gently released her wrist, and gestured toward the chair just recently vacated, and upturned by her swift movement. Bertha righted the chair and sat down, holding her wrist and moaning softly, but making no other protest. Mrs. Pool left the room, I presumed to order the tea, and I breathed in deeply, though cautiously.

"Have you need of any other demonstration?" asked Mr. Poole wryly.

"No," I said, laughing almost lightly as the tension eased. "I can see that your mother is quite capable."

"Yes," said Mr. Poole. "She is. It is not my own plan to remain here as proprietor indefinitely, only long enough to save for a small house where I might care for my mother one day. She has been a good mother, Mr. Rochester."

"I have no doubt of it," I said lamely, still stunned into relative silence in the midst of these two seemingly unimposing, yet singularly strong personalities. Grace Poole then reentered with a tea tray, and setting it down on a table proceeded to serve us, beginning with Bertha. My wife took the proffered cup without comment and sipped it quietly. I had never seen her so docile in another woman's presence.

After serving her son and myself, Mrs. Poole took her seat once more. "Do you not drink tea?" I inquired of the woman.

"Nay," she said, and added honestly, "Porter is all I drink," and producing a cup and flask she poured herself a liberal amount of the detestable spirit. "My one vice," she shrugged, and I grinned in response.

"Harmless," said I.

"Mostly," said Mrs. Poole. "I have at times taken a bit overmuch and slept the day over."

"Never while on-duty," clarified Mr. Poole. "Mother is most temperate and responsible." Somehow I did not think to question either of them, and assented that we all needed some form of solace.

It was arranged that we would leave for Thornfield the following morning, and Bertha and I were housed in two adjoining chambers that evening. Bertha made no sound, as Mrs. Poole herself resided in the room with her, holding sway. She was situated comfortably enough, with a comfortable bed and a good supper. Restraints there were in the room; but Mrs. Poole intimated to her that they would only be used if she acted out, which Bertha would not do. She was intelligent enough to know who was the alpha in a pack, and showed absolute deference accordingly. I, too, was similarly accommodated in comfort in my own chamber, but I did not sleep that night, fearful that some raving of my wife's would change the minds of the Pooles by morning, and that Grace would refuse to accompany us back to Thornfield. Her competence and control over the situation seemed too good to be true, and I hated to look with any hope toward a future where I would be free of my burden, and that Bertha would be well-cared for.

My morning I came to realize that my concerns and fears were unwarranted, and after an early breakfast and affectionate though simple parting between mother and son, we were on our way. Now, with night upon us and miles yet to travel, I allowed myself that hope, that light ahead. I need not remain at Thornfield much longer. I could go anywhere. Soon. First, other precautions must be taken. I thought of Mrs. Fairfax, the good housekeeper I'd known from my childhood. She must not be made aware of the situation. Nor must the other servants, few though there were. One other need be let in on it, Dr. Carter, my own surgeon, a discrete man of worldly wisdom and heavenly heart. Once he knew… I was free.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Enveloped in a velvet-covered, cushioned seat at _La Theatre Ode'on_, I prepared to snore away an early November night of Meyerbeer's _Margherita d'Anjou; _a whimsical though insipid melodrama, and one I cared very little for. It was merely the mode of the day to see and be seen at such places of an evening, especially for a recently endowed heir with much money and few demands upon his time. I thought of nothing and searched for nothing; only a lazy seeking of balm to solace me and bring some life into my pre-maturely ancient spirit. The night without was unseasonably warm and the gaslight within oppressed me still further, but a listlessness had settled upon me at the close of the day, and I could not be stirred even to fan myself with the paper fan resting upon my knee. Languid walks along boulevards, café delicacies smothered in chocolate, and penny musicians had lulled me into a stupor which I welcomed after the past months' trouble, and my comatose sojourning through the city made no moving impression upon my soul.

As the entr'acte began and movement below my solitary box suggested a return to the less-than-riveting libretto, I pondered this small, cramped theater and sighed over what ought to be in such a city as Paris. Opera held no especial charm for me at the best of times, but I felt the reason to be that it had never been given its due. No opera would be worth its salt until Paris bit the proverbial bullet and built a monument to it; a _palais_ with a plush, red-carpeted double escalier and a hundred box front taking up an entire city block. Such a building had been discussed and bickered over, but no situation suited thus far, and so a Paris Opera House had yet to become a reality. Instead the Parisians were forced to view their _Faust_ and their _Carmen_ in cramped spaces, lacking acoustic prowess and artistic imagination. A better man than me would make the building of an opera house his maximum opus, and the sooner the better.

The last month had brought an overhaul to Thornfield Hall. The staff were given notice nearly in total, for all but one had treated my father and brother with deference and myself with contempt—I knew that what was needed to ensure the success of my plan was complete loyalty and the successful drawing of a veil between my _bride _and the world. One concession to utterly dismissing everyone connected to the Hall was the retention of the invaluable Alice Fairfax, in the place of housekeeper. She was family, certainly, and one of the only dependents employed by my late father who treated me—or at least my name—with great respect. Nay, it was more than that. To speak plainly, the worthy dame had been kind to me in boyhood, and I felt an obligation to her not only for my cousin her late husband's sake, but for her own. The most valuable characteristic about her, however, was an unquestioning, simplistic efficiency with which she obeyed her master. Incapable of imagining anything out of the ordinary and believing my every command—no matter how eccentric—to be judicious and above reproach, I knew that Mrs. Fairfax would unswervingly serve me. Such a fortuitous circumstance as her presence afforded me, I gave her directions and left the management of the Hall to her complete discretion. She knew nothing of my marriage, and I determined to keep it so. She knew only that I had travelled the world in my younger years and had fallen to great misfortune. The muddier those waters, the better.

The only servant I insisted on hiring without Mrs. Fairfax's assistance was Mrs. Grace Poole; already installed in the upper story and in perfect charge of Bertha. Beyond her placement, I allowed my housekeeper entire reign over her domain. I was wont to quit the hall as soon as possible, only to return to handle affairs of business from time to time as needed.

I dragged my thoughts back from the preparations at Thornfield to the lovers upon the stage, warbling their devotion in over-exaggerated tones as the villain sang his revenge and exited stage left. The lovers fled stage right, and thus entered the Act III ballet. Normally a necessary evil to be endured while the primary actors changed costume and scene, I expected nothing extraordinary from the performance of prancing girls tonight. My sudden attention was a surprise even to myself when the principle ballerina entered: thin, shapely legs stemming from a full skirt and long white arms outstretched she twirled impossibly on toe-slippers. Her form: lithe, her face and hair: Diaphanous, this woman drew the breath from me as had Bertha when first we met. A young man of twenty-six, I recognized in this stranger the angel of love rather than the object of lusty blood-flow that is the downfall of so many dupes. Standing from my seat I reached through the curtain of the box and pulled the attendant within.

"Oui, Monsieur Rochester, comment puis-je vous aider?" asked the eager, liveried man with alert blue eyes and blindingly white gloves.

"Un programme," I said, refusing to tear my eyes from the vision on stage. "Avez-vous?"

"Oui, Monsieur," said the man, handing me a folded page.

I glanced down at the page and read the names of the actors, searching rather for the Corps de Ballet. It mentioned the name of a ballet school, but not the performers. "Qui est elle?" I asked.

"Monsieur?" questioned the attendant.

I pointed toward the woman at center stage, the belle of the dancers and the delight of my eyes. The man smiled slightly. "Ah, Monsieur, une belle femme," said the man. "Elle est de nouveau sur le corps de ballet."

The damned dolt, I could tell that she was new. Rolling my eyes I persisted. "Son nom?!"

Bowing slightly, the man replied, "Mademoiselle Celine Varens."

OoOoOoOoO

I did not seek out Celine after the performance that night, nor for many nights. I merely sat long after the performances imagining what it might be to speak with her, to hold her, to make love to her. This last I entertained in fancy alone, for my obsession did not yet lead me to commit the sin in body—only in mind. The learned theologian would remind me of Christ's words on the mount: _whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart_. How I separated the thought from the deed is indicative of my own spiritual state in those days, and though I am loathe to recall it, this is to be a true account of my life, as sordid as it may be.

Indeed, I did not seek her out, but rather she found me. I had come to quite an acquaintance with the box attendant in the following weeks, and I suppose he thought to be conferring on me a great favor by telling the lady of my admiration; for, uninspired by the opera as I was, no truer pilgrim came to worship his shrine with as much devotion as I in my infatuation with Celine.

It was the final performance of _Margherita d'Anjou_, and following was a break of several weeks before a new show went up. I was resigned to this being the final time I might see _La Varens_, for like a cowardly pup I had not the fortitude to meet her. Some part of my innocence remained, perhaps, or sense of propriety… well, it was not only innocence, or at least a sense of purity only plaid a small role in my fears. It was a lack of faith in my own power to attract that kept me silent. One such as she could not find favor in a harsh ogre like myself.

A quiet knock on the wood-frame of my box drew me from my reverie. "Come," I said calmly and sat up straight. I mused that it was the attendant or a cleaning woman wishing to finish with this box and urge me from thence. I was utterly amazed when I was instead greeted by dark eyes and full lips. I ignored the attendant's introduction of "un visiteur de vous voir," and instead stared into the perfection that was Celine, standing there in my box, flirting her fan.

"I 'ear much of your patronage to zees 'umble theatre, Monsieur," she said, her dulcet accent charming me at once.

"Yes, I enjoy the play most wonderfully," I blundered.

Celine laughed delightfully, not at my rough manners, but in an almost encouraging sort of way. She asked how I liked the play, and I lied that it was the best I'd ever seen. She asked various introductory questions and did her best to set me at my ease. There was something familiar in her ease of speaking—Bertha had that same way at first, when in her right mind, of engaging a person and making him speak about himself. Though similar, it did not put me on my guard as it should have done. Celine, in her friendly, seductive way, beckoned to me, and I willingly followed to oblivion.

Enough of my remaining history with Celine can easily be found in other volumes, by my own narrative, so I abridge here: during the six-weeks break of the opera I spent money lavishly on Celine and committed the sin of adultery, not in mind alone but enthusiastically in body, half the time denying that any true transgression existed, the other half justifying my actions and stifling the voice of conscience. The rocky slope, once begun sliding gained speed until my folly crashed into a heap.

Like Bertha, Celine too had become unfaithful to me. I broke off our arrangement and she lamely attempted to win back my affections—or at least my bank roll—by presenting me with an infant chit she said was mine. Adele looked nothing like me, but what was more; she would have to have been born at the sixth month to be mine: no child could survive so early.

Still, I quitted Celine, leaving her a sizable sum—I did not wish the mother's folly to result in the child's poverty. Even long after her death, the child would benefit from my care, could I but find a suitable manager for it… but not yet—that part of my story must wait its proper time; and though soon, I have more to tell of my wickedness before the entrance of an angel.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

As a boy at the age of seven, a faire of gypsies came to Milcotte. The usual attractions diverted the eye and emptied the purse; from performing animals and two penny games to outlandish characters including an impossibly obese man and a bearded tavern wench. For children there were candied nuts and sugar plums and a curious, geared contraption called a carousel. One stepped onto a platform shaped like an enormous wheel turned on its side. Affixed to it were small, stationary horses, diminutive chariots and wagons. For sixpence one took his seat of choice and rode round and round as large clockworks contained in the center turned—by what witchery my infant brain could not then fathom—and piping music accompanied the rider.

My parents indulged Roland and my desire to ride it, and while in motion we waved to them with each turn, enacting races on our steeds and shouting. Roland soon tired of this, and in a single turn of the carousel he tied my boot lacings to the pole whereon my white pony was stationed. The ride ended, and laughing children departed—I could not untie the knot, and as our station on the ride stopped opposite from where my parents stood I could not signal to them for help. I cried for my mother, but she did not come. The ride soon began again, and when it came 'round to the point where my parents had stood waiting for us, they and my brother were gone. I searched for them in the crowd, all while trying to no avail to untie the knot in my lacings.

One half hour later my mother finally returned and rushed to me—I was sick and crying, my suit jacket messed and my wits distraught. Having untied my boot from the pole, my mother gathered me into her arms and held me, crying as I cried, for she had been very worried. Apparently Roland had told her and my father that I'd been a naughty child and run off in the opposite direction. My father laughed as though it were a joke, and chided me for my unmanly tears, but my mother comforted me gently and intimated how worried she had been. My father laughed, but my mother loved.

That was my last memory of my mother before she died, and I recalled it now, in the present. Following Celine, a decade of searching became my unending carousel, and my depraved and spiraling soul the knotted boot lacings that entrapped me in this farcical ride. Something in me, the little boy who'd been ill-used by brother and father, cried from within for my mother, but no one rescued me.

Convinced that I was free and ought to marry; I was equally convinced that I ought to wait and try the steed, as it were, before purchase. A subsequent horrendous marital relationship being the bane of my existence I would do anything but fall into that trap again. Did not one consider the house to let and its situation before making an offer? Justifying that the taking of a mistress was in every way different from true sensual promiscuity, I looked on the problem with the eyes of a scholar and conducted my experiments with detachment, even when in bed with the subject. I recorded my findings point for point with a list I had created, certain "musts" in the bride of my choosing. It took only two women to cause me to see my folly: Giacinta and Clara. One had wide-set eyes, while the other had not an ounce of wit. One too tall, one too stout. But such faults might be overlooked had not the one crucial defect glared as bright as the sun at midday.  
They, and I, were not pure.  
Pardon the seeming paradox, I mean those words. The women's very inability to overcome temptation was their downfall. From the first thrills of pleasure I knew that the relationships were due to fail. I knew of my own sinfulness, and needed a woman of stronger moral conviction than I had. Even in the throws of sensuality while calling to the heavens in my spending, disappointment crept in. Because neither woman could say no to me or to temptation, they were not worthy of me. The hypocrisy of my situation I did not then consider, for I was the experimenter, the great scientist who hypothesized with objectivity; the constant in the equation. I believed then that, had I encountered a woman of great moral conviction, my own study over I would return to an angelic state as white as snow. I did not then know how depraved I had become.  
Giacinta and Clara alike did not stumble, but flung themselves headlong into sin's abyss, and I relinquished each to the proverbial bin like so many rats of Bedlam's laboratories. I would not whore through the towns or take a different woman each night, though my youthful vigor might have been equal to such a task. I would not leave s string of lovers and bastards in my wake. Something held me back; perhaps the hope to find HER, my goddess. Once found, I would detest confessing my sins in such a way, and such fear kept me relatively celibate from the female form, save the two mentioned above.  
One concession to debauchery I made, in the study of the female form and nervous system. I wished to be a faithful, attentive, and generous husband once I found her. Such books I read and houses of ill repute I visited as I traveled the continent in that decade of dissipation. All in the name of scientific searching. Though I did no further deed with womankind, the deeds of my mind were dark indeed—though I convinced myself that I was readying for my eventual wife. I would not be mocked again for my ignorance as I had been by Bertha. Never again.  
It was in the early winter of my 38th year that, finally sated and sickened with my search. I longed for peace, and perhaps redemption. No such wife of perfection was I to find, and even if such a one existed-what kind of husband would I make, wretched and profligate as I had become? In a haze of opiates and an illustrated translation of the Sanskrit instruction in _Kama_ I had had enough. I removed the hookah piece from my mouth, discarded the book, washed, dressed, and methodically packed my things for home.  
Tragedy, ill fortune and sin had tainted my life before the age of 40. As such I sank into pensive reflection and melancholy that uncannily resembled that of soldiers returning from battle, or from a stint in India. I'd seen no friend killed nor had I done the killing of an innocent myself, save my own purity. I'd begun to see the world other pawns in this game, easily sacrificed for some greater good, and lost too soon. I did not turn to drink as many men do, but that admission is not to prompt praise: such was simply not my temptation. I enjoyed spirits to warm the blood or enjoy an evening, but beyond that I partook seldom, and so it was no great means of sin.  
My vice came as accident, and yet it seemed to sooth and e'en redeem me in some measure. I was snipping the tip of a cigar and noticed that the rounded blade of the diminutive guillotine had dulled somewhat. Taking a small, diamond sharpener and carefully honing the edges, my finger slipped and sliced neatly. "Damnation!" came my utterance, though not from pain, only shock. Withdrawing the digit from the cutter and sucking at the blood I sensed multiple things in that salty taste. Shock had eventually given way to slight pain; a pain which thrilled me and quickened my heart, at once soothing my guilt and bordering on arousal. It lasted only a moment, but so heady was the sensation that I nearly jumped from my chair to conduct a subsequent experiment. I bound the cut finger with a bit of cloth and sought my boot knife. Removing my cufflinks and rolling my sleeves up to the elbows I examined my forearms. Each powerfully muscled and strong, the black hair as soft as down, I considered a location. An ephemeral thought regarding the veins in my wrist I discarded immediately. Were I to take my life I had already decided that a bullet would do the job, not this foolish assassin's or women's way of letting the blood.  
Turning my arm over and examining the skin on the back I decided to pass the knife quickly over it, not too deeply, but enough to feel the sting and see red. It was simple and fast, I was amazed at how easily the flesh gave way. Pain once more gave way to thrill and something more, like penance and absolution in that thin line of blood.  
I looked down and realized a knock at the door that could only be the carriage which would convey me to the ship crossing the channel; the last leg of my journey homeward. From the English port only a day's ride was wanting and I would be home for the first time in a year.

I bound my arm and smiled and shamed at the thought of something so juvenile giving me release from guilt and shame as cutting my own flesh. I sensed a greater despair settling in, and knew I would have to fight against it, but perhaps for now it was simply the relief I needed. Once home there were sure to be other demons with which to wrestle.


End file.
